


if they could see me now

by lizability



Category: Bunheads
Genre: Amy Sherman Palladino, Ballet, Broadway, Bunheads - Freeform, Disappointment, Dreams, One Shot, Short One Shot, Sutton Foster - Freeform, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 23:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17171282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizability/pseuds/lizability
Summary: a bunheads one shot.❝𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞...❞Michelle finds an old ballet attire on her wardrobe, one that brings back old memories - some good, some disappointing; but one thing is for certain, they push her to take action and kickstart her life in dancing out of an impulse.❝If only Hubbell could see her now.❞





	if they could see me now

She glances at clothes hung in her wardrobe – the sparkly, blinding fuchsia colored combination she never got to wear – the color, utterly fluorescent, creator of many headaches. The glitter that will constantly fall off, despite the quality of the fabric, leaving clues wherever it goes. Her wardrobe is now a puddle of pink, disco-ball-ish sparkles that she's either too tired or not that eager to clean. 

But her mind is a whirlwind. For one, it would take her back to her dancing, acting days, but those are over. Buried. Finite. End of Act II for Michelle. So she'd trace her years up to now, but that never worked out well for her, did it? Tracing the path to disappointment. Laying the utmost false and highest expectations for her future, for them to be stepped on, crumbled over and over, and every time she thinks there's hope, she's proven wrong once again.

Like every single tiny speck of glitter is a dream that fell on the ground. Michelle imagines so, and gets down on both knees, tracing a sole finger around the blinding specks. Oh, the number of dreams that fell down. 

There's one that's more blinding than all others. She doesn't think it's the sun batting outside the window on its direction. She's in too deep to think straight, so she assumes it's Chicago. That dream. 

You know it's something serious when your dreams turn into nightmares. You know it's so strong, that when something goes wrong and you're not listened to, despite it being clearly your moment, the moment you waited for with your whole being – nightmares about auditions appear, night and day, flashing failure in your head, until you believe you're ceased to fail yourself. 

Still, the more serious it is, the hard it is to let go. The strongest one is always the one that never goes away, and even though you try to push it, it perseveres. For her, that's Broadway. The neon glitter-shaped worm on her ear – and on her heart. On the deepest core of her heart. 

Michelle would probably joke and say something like 'Heart? Do I have one of those? Is it, like, inside me or something?' and people would laugh and, deep down, she would try so hard to convince herself that it was true, she didn't have a heart, she was as cold as a stone on the breezy wind. But as a regular person, she couldn't deny she had dreams, dreams that spoke louder than herself. She'd try to mute that side of hers. But sometimes, there are dreams that can't be muted.

She started looking at opportunities with different eyes since arriving in Paradise, she even went to an open call audition, but once again, like a memory of the past, disappointment. So she tried to blame it on the girls, over and over, the Bunheads, obsessive prima ballerinas. 

But looking at that combination she once called hideous, the first combination she bought with her own money, when her dreams were fresh out of her mother's house, Michelle thinks she just wants someone to put the blame on other than herself. Cowardly intents, as usual. All she knows is to run away, to not get attached – from her mother to her own brother, to feelings itself, and to dreams – she's bracing for the worst, and the worst is disappointment. Always, that word flashing before her eyes, with 'you're a' preceding it most of the times. Normal to Michelle. More of the usual. The plate of the day.

But this once, she does want to wear the ugly Christmas sweater version of a ballet combination, she wants to feel like a Bunhead once again, to look back to the times where she had fresh dreams and every single glitter speck was well glued to her tutu. So she grabs it, along with a beautiful tiara she has saved from her younger days, and runs away to the studio.

It's two in the morning, and she has to teach during the day, but for once in her life, the night is young and so is she. Her prospects are positive. Not even that tutu seems hideous, or even fluorescent anymore and, despite buying it at seventeen years old, it still fits like a glove. So why not tonight? Why not right now? It's like she's a child again and the worst is yet to come.

Dressed up, even made up, with some pink glitter she found lying around on the wardrobe's floor, smeared and spit-glued onto her cheeks, like children playing troops with dirt; she lingered on the barre, until she proceeded to give the performance of her life – brisé, battement, changement, chassé, ciseaux, grand jeté, pas de chat, port de bras, pirouette, double pirouette, triple pirouette. A symphony of grace and passion.

And the final bow.

A rare sight to witness – Michelle sits on the ground and breaks down crying, dripping onto her pretty dress, now the prettiest dress she's ever seen. Ugly sobbing, hugging her knees like a little child, the prime of her age. She was ready to take Broadway by a storm. She was renewed, and it felt so relieving.

If only Hubbell could see her now.


End file.
